


Wollt in Mir Erkennen Getreuer Hoffnung Stilles Bild

by LayALioness



Series: 12 Days of Bellarke! [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Germany
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5355860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke's a big fan of Christmas Markets for a lot of reasons, but mostly the alcohol.</p><p>Because if she's going to finally make her move on Bellamy Blake, they both need to be drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wollt in Mir Erkennen Getreuer Hoffnung Stilles Bild

**Author's Note:**

> okay! so this is 100% the most self-insert-ish thing i've ever written. the military base where Clarke and Bellamy live is based entirely on the one i grew up on, in Germany. I realize a lot of you may not understand some of the things mentioned in this fic--for instance, Christmas Markets, which are awesome, I swear. also! there is French in this fic, and I used google translate for it, so if you speak French, I'm sorry. I took German, and don't know a word of French myself, and it is two in the morning, so I didn't put much effort into figuring out if it's totally correct. sorry. 
> 
> Edit: kristen apparently knows French because she is a woman of many talents, and has graciously lent me her expertise. Any mistakes made in English are mine though.
> 
> title from the German Christmas carol "Am Weihnachtsbaum die Lichter brennen" and translates roughly to "Find in me, of true hope, a still image."

When most people think of Germany, it’s either Oktoberfest, or World War II. Which, okay, those are pretty important things, and Clarke’s a big fan of any carnival that endorses good beer, but she’s always a little disappointed that no one back home knows about the Christmas Markets, and how _awesome_ they are.

“I mean, it’s just—such a _loss_ ,” she says, waving a cup of Glühwein at Bellamy’s face. He dodges it pretty naturally, since this is their fourth year in this country, so he pretty much knows what to expect from her when she’s drunk. Mostly, a lot of flailing, draping, and telling him how pretty he is. “They’re so _magic_!”

“You realize you whine about this _every year_ , right?” he asks, raising a brow.

“Well, yeah,” Clarke says, taking another large sip. She’s pretty sure she’s burned the roof of her mouth already, but all the indoor seats were taken, so they’re sitting outside on a bench, and she’s _freezing_.

“Cool, just making sure.” Bellamy swings an arm around her, tugging her in, because he’s had a fair bit to drink by now too, and she’s not the only snuggly drunk.

Clarke met Bellamy her freshman year, at the high school on Walden base. She’d just moved from Heidelburg, when her dad got his new contract, and Bellamy’s mom was the French teacher at school.

She hadn’t _meant_ to get detention on her first day—she’d never even gotten a _tardy_ , before—but there were some older guys, Murphy and his stupid fucking cronies, bullying one of the new freshman girls, Charlotte.

Clarke had, and still does have, zero tolerance for assholes, so without even thinking, she shoved Murphy in the chest with both hands, sliding in between him and Charlotte, so the younger girl could make her escape.

“What the fuck’s your problem?” Dax, one of the cronies, snapped.

“You are,” Clarke snapped back, getting ready for a fight. She knew there were some guys who didn’t hit girls, but honestly, if she didn’t get to at least brawl them a little, she was going to be disappointed.

That was when Bellamy swooped in, all cocky and smug. “What’s going on here?” he asked, sliding up beside her, arms crossed over his chest. He gave her the smuggest fucking smirk, like _I’ve got this_ , and it just made her blood boil more.

“None of your fucking business,” she barked, a little gratified when his eyes grew wide with surprise. Clearly, he’d been expecting her to _like_ being rescued.

“Well, _pardonne-moi_ , princess,” he sneered, and Clarke hit him.

She didn’t really mean to, she’d just been gearing for a fight. And her fist barely glanced off his shoulder, so he didn’t even move.

But of course, that’s when Vice Principal Kane found them, and he handed them each a little pink slip without a word.

“ _She_ hit _me_!” Bellamy protested, as Clarke simmered by his side.

“He started it,” she argued, but even she knew it wasn’t _really_ his fault, so she added “But yeah, I’m the one who threw the punch. He didn’t really do anything, besides being an as—jerk.”

“We have a zero fight tolerance,” Kane said, grave. “So both of you will be expected in the gymnasium at three o’clock.” They watched him leave, suddenly realizing Murphy and the others had somehow slinked off during their argument.

“Way to go, ass-face,” Clarke snarled, before whirling around to leave him spluttering in the hall.

“ _You_ hit _me_!” he called after, but she pretended not to hear.

Clarke fully intended to stay as far away from Bellamy Blake as possible in detention, but as it turned out, no one else had managed to get in trouble on the first day, so the only two desks—the kind with a small platform attached to the chair—were side by side. Mr. Woods was the supervisor, and he was also the algebra teacher, so mostly he just sort of looked at them with disapproval, and had them grade his class’s pop quizzes when he thought they looked bored.

It was easy, at first, to just work in silence, exchanging heated glares every once in a while. But then Bellamy smirked at the quiz he was grading, and tilted the page so Clarke could get the joke too, and then she found a penis drawn in the margins of hers, so she showed him. And after that, it was even easier to start passing notes back and forth, even if most of her responses involved barfing stick figures, while Bellamy’s were mainly along the lines of _fuck this_.

Once their hour of hard time was up, Mr. Woods collected back his quizzes, now defiled by Bellamy’s chicken scratch and Clarke’s stick figures, and ushered them out of the gym so he could lock it shut behind him.

Then it was just the two of them in the courtyard, and Clarke watched, a little amused, as Bellamy rubbed at the back of his neck, suddenly awkward.

“Do you, uh, need a ride?” he offered, and she bit back a grin.

“I’m just catching the duty bus,” she explained. “My dad works on Alpha base, and I’m supposed to meet him there.”

Bellamy looked a little impressed, in spite of himself, which was gratifying. Alpha’s the intelligence headquarters, filled with a lot of computer rooms that can only be accessed with special codes or little cards, like the one her dad has. Everything says TOP SECRET, and Clarke always feels like she’s in a James Bond movie, when she’s there.

“Cool,” he said, and there was a lull, where neither of them seemed to know what to do.

“But I forgot my headphones at home,” Clarke hedged. “So I could use some company, if you’re not busy.”

Bellamy ducked his head with a grin. “I’ve got time,” he agreed. “But I need to let my mom know, first.”

“Okay.” Clarke was expecting him to take out one of the little black prepaid phones that were so popular on the American bases, but instead he headed back into the school, nodding for her to follow him.

He led her to the French room, just one floor up from the basement, where a middle-aged woman sat grading or something at her desk, and a little girl, maybe ten, stood drawing butterflies on the white board.

“Bell!” the girl shouted, running over, and Bellamy dropped his bag to the floor so he could scoop her up.

“Hey, O,” he grinned. “How was school?”

O made a face, and he laughed. “Stupid. Everyone had to wear nametags and sit in the same seat _all day_. They said we’re too big for recess!”

Now Bellamy made a face. “That sucks, kid,” he said, sounding genuine, and then seemed to remember Clarke was in the room. She watched as a blush crept up his neck, and bit back a smirk that wasn’t child-appropriate. “Uh, Octavia, this is my friend Clarke. Can you say hi?”

Octavia stared at her brother, looking outraged. “I’m not _five_ anymore, Bell,” she reminded him, and then turned to look Clarke upside down, in assessment. Whatever she saw, she seemed to like, and gave a quick nod before says “Hi Clarke, I’m Octavia. I’m named after an em-poor-er’s sister.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes, setting her down. “You don’t have to say that every time,” he grumbled, glancing back at the teacher, who Clarke assumed was his mom. She hadn’t even looked up once since they’d entered the room.

“Mom, I’m walking Clarke to the bus stop,” he said, and finally the woman glanced up at them, looking a little frazzled.

“How was detention?” she asked, voice flat, and Bellamy winced a little.

“Fine,” he said, voice light. “I—”

“ _En Français,”_ the woman cut him off, and he rolled his eyes a little.

“ _Je m'excuse_ ,” he said, the language rolling off his tongue, smooth and practiced. His mom spoke back, and it went on like that for a while between the two of them. Clarke had taken German for all of middle school, so she didn’t understand a word.

Clarke had lived overseas for most of her life because of her dad’s work, only ever going back stateside to visit her mom, and family and friends over the summer, so she wasn’t new to second and even third languages.

But hearing the hot guy from detention rattle off in French like it was nothing? Yeah, it was getting to her.

Eventually, they seemed to come to an understanding—Bellamy gave one last sigh, before ruffling his sister’s hair until she kicked him, and tugging Clarke back out the door.

“It’s cool your mom works here,” she said almost immediately, and Bellamy looked so thoroughly disgusted that she laughed. “I bet you ace all your French tests, at least.”

“Yeah, no chance,” he said, wry. “She just gives me all B’s, so no one can accuse her of nepotism.”

“Well, you can at least put your powers to good use, and help _me_ ace all my French tests,” she said lightly, pretending not to see when he looked at her.

“Sure,” he shrugged, as they started off towards the bus stop by the commissary, just a ten minute walk.

They ended up waiting for a good twenty minutes, because while the Turkish drivers were insanely good at actually _driving_ , they were also pretty notoriously late. Clarke got to know him in pieces, because he didn’t seem to like giving too much away. He’d answer each of her questions with three or for word answers, which was annoying until she realized his ears were all red, like he was embarrassed for talking about himself.

Finally, the bus showed up, enormous, gray, and smelling overwhelmingly of gasoline and cigarettes, which seemed like a dangerous combination. He waved her off as she got on, between the wave of new moms trying to manhandle their strollers, and exasperated soldiers who only wanted to buy a jug of milk.

Clarke found a seat in the back, with the old cloth coverings from nineteen eighties bowling alleys, falling apart in shreds. Someone had taken a marker to the one beside her, and wrote _EAT BALLS_ in black, blurry ink. The ride to Alpha was thirty minutes, in good traffic, and she took out her headphones to listen to whatever playlist Wells sent her last week. He was protesting her move via music—a lot of Joshua Radin and Imogen Heap.

And that was how she became friends with Bellamy Blake. She’d been expecting to have to hunt him down at school the next day, because he was a grade above her, but Ark High did a block schedule, which meant she had all new classes, and managed to find him sitting in her very first one.

“Are you following me, princess?” he teased, moving his legs off the seat beside him so she could sit down.

“Maybe you’re just lucky,” she said, prim, and he laughed so loud the teacher had to shush them. “Be quiet,” she hissed. “I’m not getting in trouble again, because of you!”

“ _You_ hit _me_ ,” he grumbled, scowling, and the teacher yelled at them again.

That’s how the next three years went—passing notes in the classes they had together, complaining about the ones that they didn’t. Bellamy did follow through on the French front, and was basically the only reason she made it through the class. It was prettier than German, but she was too used to sounding angry.

“It’s a _romantic_ language,” he said, amused, hitting her in the head with a pencil. “Stop sounding like you’re going to war.”

“War can be romantic,” Clarke argued, petulant. “Just look at Troy.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes, because she was ridiculous, but he was grinning too, so she counted it a victory. “Just—try _papillon_ again.”

Her Junior year, his Senior, Bellamy asked Clarke to Prom.

“Oh,” she said, heart sinking a little, and the smile wilted on his face. “It’s just—Wells is visiting, to go with me. I thought you wouldn’t want to go. You never want to go to dances.”

“Yeah,” he shrugged, like it was no big deal. “But my mom already got me the suit, so. Might as well, right? It’s cool, though, that he’s coming. I know you’ve missed him.”

“He’s my best friend,” she agreed, but the words felt wrong. “Well, one of them.”

Bellamy raised an eyebrow as they reached the bus stop. He didn’t even bother telling his mom, anymore; just dropped his bag off and left. Octavia was at the middle school over on Mecha base, and her bus always took about forty-five minutes, so he waited at the stop to meet her.

“You have more than one? Greedy.”

“Shut up,” she shoved him, but he didn’t go far. His arm was very sturdy—all of him was, in fact. She’d known him for three years by now, and was totally and completely gone for him. She’d been trying to figure out how to make a move, since this was their last year together, before he graduated and moved on to bigger things, and bigger people. “It’s just the two.”

“Who’s the second?”

Clarke rolled her eyes at his dramatics. “You know it’s you, stop being an idiot.”

“Can’t help it,” he grinned, swinging an arm around her, easy as anything. “I bet my date’s hotter than yours.”

“Maybe,” Clarke hummed, feeling a little nauseas, like she’d missed her Big Chance. The movie moment, where she’d say yes to Prom, and he’d admit he liked her, and she’d go up on her toes and plant a kiss on his lips, and everything would be perfect. “But not hotter than me.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But it’s hard to beat me in a tux, so…”

“We are really vain,” she mused, and he nodded.

“Probably why no one else likes us.”

“Girls like you,” she teased, and he rolled his eyes predictably.

“They like you, too,” he waggled his brows and she flushed. She’d recently gone to Homecoming with Lexa, and they’d slow danced a few times before just leaving early to make out behind the gym.

It was fun, but Lexa didn’t want anything serious, and Clarke didn’t either, really, so it died out pretty quick.

Bellamy took Raven as his date to Prom, and for the first time, Clarke was really, truly nervous that he might date someone who wasn’t her. Bellamy didn’t date, not really; he fucked around a lot, but most of his free time was spent studying or taking care of his sister, or running track if he had an easy class schedule—and nearly all of it was spent with Clarke.

She’d sort of started thinking that maybe he was waiting, maybe he was saving himself for her, just waiting for the timing to be right, like she was.

But then he showed up at her house with _Raven_ , looking gorgeous as always in a tight and silky red dress, and Clarke felt her heart plummet to her ankles. She never had control of all her internal organs around Bellamy, not really, but usually they were just fluttery. Now they felt like lead.

“Hey,” she grinned, tight and brittle, and Bellamy instantly went into Big Brother Mode, reaching to smooth her hair back from her face. It was pinned up, mostly, with little blooms of edelweiss braided through, but there were a few stray curls down her cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, and she shook him off.

“Nothing, really—just nerves. The SAT’s were this morning.”

The students had all complained about the bad timing, but the dates were already set, so mostly they just grumbled a lot through the four-hour test.

Bellamy relaxed, and gave a sympathetic smile. He’d taken his in January, like the giant nerd he was. “Yeah? That sucks, princess. But you know you aced them, right? You were reading SAT prep books at like, twelve.”

“Shut up, like you weren’t,” she snapped, and they both looked a little guilty when Wells cleared his throat, beside them.

He just mostly looked amused, though, in his powder blue suit he insisted on pairing with the bowtie with piano key-print. Raven was smirking a little too, like she knew something they didn’t, and Clarke leaned over to hug her—even if she and Bellamy did end up dating, she was still her friend. She couldn’t be mad about it; she’d missed her shot, and hadn’t made a move when she should have.

But that didn’t stop the small ache of disappointment.

“Ready?” Wells prompted, and they all filed out the door, after letting Jake fuss over pictures.

Clarke had ordered a limousine, because it was Prom night, and she had style, and she’d invited Bellamy and Raven to carpool.

“This is why everyone needs a rich friend,” Raven grinned wickedly when she found the champagne. It tasted like peppermint schnapps, though, which wasn’t nearly as surprising as it should have been. German alcohol was weird.

Ark’s Prom was at Neuschwanstein, the castle that inspired the Disney one. Clarke had visited in the daytime, when they ran their storybook tours in spring, and their pumpkin festival in the autumn. She and Bellamy had taken Octavia last year, and Clarke had thought they’d have to translate for her, but the eleven year old was even better at German than them.

The dance’s theme was, predictably, “Fairytale Ball,” and Clarke had dressed for the part, because even if Bellamy wasn’t going to admire the way she filled out her dress, the rest of the world deserved to.

She’d been a little disappointed, when she’d opened the door and there was no double take, no slow up-and-down gaze as he took her all in. There was just his smile, easy and warm, and his eyes never strayed past her shoulders.

But when Clarke stumbled over to him, where he was propping up the wall, watching Raven try to teach Jasper to Samba, she was pleased to catch him staring at her dress.

“What?” she grinned, and she was still flushed and breathing a little heavy, from dancing to whatever pop punk song Monty had requested. It had been impressively uncensored, and _loud_. Their DJ seemed to not care a bit that this was a school dance, which was obviously awesome.

Bellamy shook his head a little, reaching up to mess with one of the flowers that came loose in her hair. “You just really fit the theme,” he smirked, “ _Princess_.”

“That was the general idea,” she said, a little breathless, and watched as he seemed to forget how to swallow.

They spent most of the night in the corner, except for the few times she managed to drag him out to dance, mostly during the fast-paced beats that required lots of jumping—but there were some slow ones as well, where they shuffled in place a little, and his thumbs rubbed soft circles against her hips.

Eventually, they both remembered they had actual _dates_ , but when they guiltily searched for them, they saw they were making out across the room.

“I’d feel worse if they clearly weren’t having a better time without us,” Clarke mused, and then felt immediately shitty, because—what if he actually _liked_ Raven, and didn’t find this funny, and a little relieving, like she did?

But when she glanced over, he just looked amused. “She almost turned me down,” he said, smug. “Now she’s gonna _owe_ me.”

Bellamy graduated as Salutatorian, but only because Raven edged him out in AP Physics, with that project where they drop an egg off the roof. She’d beaten him by half a dozen feet, at least, but he still maintained that she cheated.

“I don’t have to cheat to beat you at science,” Raven said, rolling her eyes, as the three of them posed for a picture.

“You don’t have to, but you did,” Bellamy shot back, and Clarke patted them each on the shoulder.

“You’re both super nerds, okay? That means you should combine your powers for good.”

“My powers are heading to NASA,” Raven said primly. “Your boyfriend’s are going to die in some musty old library at Harvard, wearing one of those jackets with the elbow patches, like a dork.”

Neither of them bothered to correct her on the _boyfriend_ thing—they’d been hearing it for three years, after all, and had learned to just tune the word out.

“Like your boyfriend isn’t,” Bellamy scoffed, and right on cue, Wells stepped up beside Raven, planting a kiss on her cheek.

He’d spent two months asking her out through carefully formed 8tracks playlists. There were a lot of Bon Iver/Alicia Keys/Drake combinations. Clarke’s still not really sure how it _worked_.

“Wells can make music for NASA,” Raven said, petulant, and Wells gave her a fond smile.

“What, _This one goes out to the crew of Apollo 21_?”

“You act like you’re joking, but I bet you’ve actually made that mix tape.”

“ _I Believe I Can Fly_ would be number one,” he said, seriously, and Raven grinned into his shoulder.

Clarke looked up at Bellamy, and he tucked his cap down on her head, so she had to blow the gold and black tassel out of her face. “Tropfenschiff?” she asked, and he nodded.

“Tropfenschiff.”

Tropfenschiff was a small hookah bar just a twenty minute walk off of Walden base, where Bellamy lived in family housing—long, desert-beige buildings with echoing stairwells and identical three-bedroom apartments on each floor. They also had enormous communal basements that often went unused, perfect for a bunch of teenagers sleeping off hangovers at three am.

The rest of the graduating class, and most of their high school in general, since the bartenders there didn’t card, were already at the largest tables doing Jäeger shots in the back, or smoking the apples-and-cinnamon tobacco, making the air sticky sweet. Raven ordered them all tequila basically immediately, while Wells got one of the bright blue mixed drinks he liked, with the little umbrellas.

Bellamy had seen Clarke drunk dozens of times, by now. She was past the legal drinking age, and they liked to go downtown a few weekends a month. He’d been there when she got drunk the first time, at Spring Fest, the year she turned fifteen, because by then she already had boobs and looked a year older. He’d had to half-carry her back to the base, keeping track of their ID’s, because drunk Clarke couldn’t be trusted.

Bellamy let the three of them sleep it off in his basement, of course, tossing blankets over each of them where they curled up on the carpet, even though he was pretty drunk, too.

“Bell,” Clarke whispered, hiccupping a little, and he laid down beside her, nose just inches from hers, so he could hear.

“What?”

She grinned, feeling suddenly overwhelmingly _fond_ , and reached out to pet his hair. She loved his hair, especially when it was messy like this. She loved everything about him, and it was probably time that she let him know.

“Bell,” she said again, and he grinned, shuffling closer, until his nose brushed against her cheek, soft and slow.

“Tell me,” he poked her in the arm, but she just sighed. Her eyes were heavy anchors, dragging her down, and she forgot what she was going to say.

Which is why they’re where they are, now—already two weeks from Christmas, and still _just friends_. And Clarke hates that she hates that, because she loves having Bellamy as her best friend, she _does_ , but. She wishes she could have more, greedy as it may be.

He’s taking classes online at University of Maryland, at the base library, when he’s not working at the Class Six on base. He teases her whenever she goes in to visit him, because she’s still a few months shy of eighteen, and can’t actually buy anything there, yet.

But off-base, alcohol is fair game, and Clarke makes sure to take advantage of that, which is why she’s leaning against him, only able to stand half-up.

“How much have you had so far?” he asks, mostly amused, but with the usual concern underneath.

“Um,” Clarke squints at her mug, like it might tell her the answer. “I think—thirds? Two thirds.” She burps, and he grins.

“We should probably get some food, then,” he suggests, tugging her up beside him. “Since you’ve apparently had _two thirds_ of all their Glühwein.”

“I’m keeping it,” she warns, waving the empty mug at his face. He catches it, to put it in his bag for safe keeping. It’s leather, and he bought it from the Middle Ages section, where the stalls sold things like roasted boar meat on sticks, and meads in tin goblets, and there were lines for people to throw knives, or joust.

Christmas Markets are the _best_.

“I just wish they knew the magic,” she says, for probably the tenth time; she’s lost count. But now she’s seen the toy-and-puzzle stall, which is her favorite, and tugs Bellamy over to it, so they can dick around with the wooden puzzles that twist around in different patterns to form a box. They’re frustrating and hard, and Clarke’s only managed to solve one without help, but she goes back every time, because she’s a glutton for punishment. “The magic of Christmas,” she finishes the thought belatedly.

“I love it when you’re drunk,” Bellamy says cheerfully, flicking the little wooden woodpecker that pecks its way down a pole. “You talk like a little kid, and you start fights a lot. It’s great.”

“ _You_ talk like a little kid,” she says petulantly, and he grins.

“Yeah, just like that. It’s like it’s my birthday, or something. It’s honestly a gift.”

Clarke squints up at him, because—he’s being more flirty than usual. They tend to have a natural affection-and-banter thing going on, that everyone makes fun of, but. He’s definitely being weird.

She thinks it might be a good weird, though, which means she should probably either sober up, or get Bellamy as drunk as she is, so he won’t feel like he’s taking advantage.

The second option seems more appealing, so she heads over to the nearest drink stall, and orders him a Glühwein and a hot chocolate for her. She’s hoping there’s no alcohol in the chocolate—Germans put alcohol in _everything_ , she’s found.

When Clarke finds Bellamy again, he’s got two plates of crepes, which seems a little unfair. Clarke loves crepes, they’re her fourth-favorite thing about Christmas Markets. And it’s not like he needs _two whole plates_. That’s just greedy.

She’s about to fight him on it, but then he sets one of the plates down for her, which makes a lot more sense in retrospect. She hands him his drink.

He raises a brow as he sips it, and Clarke digs into her crepe—Nutella and banana, just how she likes.

“Are you trying to get me drunk so you aren’t the least sober one?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Clarke says, prim, licking Nutella off of her lips. She’s definitely not imagining him watching the movement, and feels a rush of satisfaction when his neck goes a little red, in the skin above his scarf.

“Sure you don’t,” he sighs, but he finishes the drink, before returning the mug for the two euro deposit. “Not all of us are thieves,” he teases, and she scrunches up her nose.

“I paid for it! That’s what the deposit’s for.”

But Bellamy just clicks his tongue, in mock-disapproval. “Such a delinquent,” he shakes his head. “And you’ve always been one—ever since that day you got us detention.”

Clarke looks up at him, a little startled, but he’s staring straight ahead as they walk. “I’m really glad you got us detention,” she admits.

“ _You_ hit _me_ ,” he protests. “How is that _my_ fault?”

“You started it,” Clarke sing-songs, and he sighs, resigned. The argument’s lasted them almost four years now; there’s no ending it, now. It’ll probably go on forever.

She buys him another Glühwein.

“Okay, you’re definitely setting me up for something,” he says when she slides up to him, at a stall selling winter gear—nicely knit hats and gloves and scarves. He buys a green pair, way too small for his hands, slim and warm-looking.

“For Octavia?” Clarke guesses, and his ears go pink.

“No,” he fidgets a little, when the woman hands them over, and he fumbles with the tag, before finally getting it off. “Hold out your hands,” he orders, gruff, like when he’s doing something nice he doesn’t want to be thanked for. Clarke gives him her hands, in a daze, and he slides on first one glove, making sure her fingers are all lined up right and snug, and then the other.

“You tore the thumb in your old ones,” he shrugs, and Clarkes stares at him, before remembering the Glühwein, and pressing the mug to his chest. “Are you trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?” he teases, and her mouth goes dry.

“Maybe.”

Bellamy freezes, looking down at her, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to figure her out. “You’re still drunk,” he decides, and she shakes her head, glancing down at her pretty new gloves. They’re exactly her favorite color, because of course he knows that. Bellamy knows everything about her, except this, and it’s time for that to change.

“I’m not,” she promises, and it’s true. The air is cold enough that she’s starting to shiver, the warm buzz in her head giving way to pure nerves.

Bellamy sets his mug down on the nearest surface, with is a chocolate-dipped fruit stand, and the worker there shoots them a glare which they ignore.

He wets his lips before speaking. “You know you don’t have to get me drunk to have me, Clarke,” he says, like it’s common knowledge or something, and she gapes.

“How could I have known that?” she demands. “You never said!”

“Well, neither did you!” he shoots back, running a hand through his curls, damp from the snow. She’d told him to wear a hat, that he’d regret it, but he hadn’t, and now his hand was wet, too. “You didn’t say a word, in _four years_ —”

“Why would I?” she asks, annoyed, because—it’s not supposed to _go_ like this. There’s A Moment, and then they both confess their love and they laugh at how stupid they’ve been, and they kiss, and—it’s not supposed to be an argument in the middle of the cobblestoned street, smelling like warm liquor and fried dough. “You never seemed interested!”

“ _I never seemed_ —” Bellamy gives a huff of a laugh, but not like he finds it funny. “That’s a joke, right? I’ve been fucking in love with you since tenth grade.”

Clarke stares a little, before clearing her throat so her voice will work. Bellamy just stares back, almost like a challenge. “My tenth grade, or yours?” she asks, finally, and he lets out a breath.

“Unbelievable,” he grumbles, and she opens her mouth to argue about _that_ , but before she can get a word out, he’s kissing her.

He tastes like Glühwein and boar meat and strawberry crepe, tongue warm and heavy in her mouth, moving against hers like he’s coaxing her, like he’s trying to talk her into it—like he could possibly _not know_.

Clarke doesn’t realize her hands are in his hair until the water starts to soak through her gloves, numbing her fingers, and she pulls back with a shiver.

She smiles when she sees his eyes stay closed for an extra second, before he blinks down at her, nervous. Like _he_ has any right to be _nervous_ , honestly.

“You idiot,” she says, quiet and fond, and he starts to smile. “I fucking love you too, alright?”

“Alright,” he agrees, dipping down to brush his nose against her cheek, trailing soft, barely-there kisses across her face, her brow, her eyelids. “But I started it.”

Clarke pulls back, affronted. “No way,” she argues. “It was definitely me—I’ve liked you since detention!”

“I’ve liked you since you called me an ass-face in front of Mr. Kane,” he says, smug, tucking his arm around her.

“No way,” she scoffs. There’s no _way_ he liked her first, and she can already tell this is going to be their new argument. She stuffs her hands in his pocket to keep them warm, since it _is_ his fault, that they’re wet, now.

“Of course you’d tell me at the _Christmas Market_ ,” Bellamy snorts, shaking his head a little, and Clarke tucks into his side with a grin.

“I keep telling you they’re magic.”


End file.
